


The Man, the Mystery: Richard Castle

by RachelCAstrid



Category: Castle
Genre: Awkward Conversations, BDSM, Baby Ryan, Babysitting, Backstory, Blaine family, Boxers, Castle is human, Castle's early work, Cheeseburgers, Childhood, Dinner, Episode Related, Exes, F/M, First Dates, First Meetings, Getting to Know Each Other, Handcuffs, Healing, Heartbreak, I Love You, Imaginary Friends, Imagination, Junior High, Kissing, Marriage Proposal, Missing Scene, Nutmeg, Oblivious Beckett, One Shot Collection, Past Relationship(s), Photographs, Poker, Public Sex, Remy's, Romance, Safewords, Sexual Content, Sherry Ort, Shooting Range, Steampunk, The Drawer, Underwear, Writers, Writing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-19
Updated: 2013-10-25
Packaged: 2017-12-21 21:51:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/905351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RachelCAstrid/pseuds/RachelCAstrid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One-shots on the theme of Kate’s discoveries and observations about Rick, including back-story details from the show and others that I invent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fraud

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 4x23 “Always” and 5x18 “The Wild Rover”
> 
>  _“Nothing you become will disappoint me; I have no preconception that I’d like to see you be or do. I have no desire to foresee you, only to discover you. You can’t disappoint me.”_ –Mary Haskell

The lights are on. He can’t help but notice.

Not because either one of them is shy, or because they _prefer_ to make love with the lights on or off—as it happens, that detail has never much mattered to them. He always notices the way Kate looks in different light: where the shadows fall, how deep and dark her eyes can seem, how bright her smile, how her smooth skin reflects even the subtlest traces of lamplight and moonlight. But he has seldom been conscious of whether or not they flip a switch first.

For some reason, he notices now. Notices not only that Kate’s smile is bright and her eyes are shining and her skin is not textured with so many shadows, but also that he is equally visible. And he realizes—that’s it. It may just be the first time since their first time that he feels so incredibly _visible._

She’s kissing him so fervently and he can’t help but reciprocate, curling over her long body, cradling her head in the bend of his arm while her fingers trace the curve of his back pocket and the line of his belt.

He kisses her jaw and her neck and feels her hum; he hears her voice and it takes him a moment to be sure that—no, she isn’t speaking now; he’s simply hearing a memory.

_I just want you._

And as he kisses her, he remembers kissing down her drenched body at his door; remembers unfastening her shirt to show the scar there. That scar affirmed for him that he had dishonored her wishes all those years ago, failed to tackle her out of a line of fire, couldn’t bring her justice any better than he could restore the broken skin. Yet she trusted him with all of her that night; let him know just by holding his palm against her grazed heart that life still pulsed through her and she wanted to share it with him.

_After everything we’ve been through._

Since then, she has seen him naked so many times, undressed him so many times. But more than anything, he wants her to know that he meant it when he said—even between the breaks in his voice—that he wanted to tell her the truth about Jordan. He wants her to know that he realizes now how vulnerable she has made herself to him, how often she has willingly peeled away her own layers so that he could see her in a new light. He wants to be half as brave as she is.

Every step toward the bedroom is another flash of memory of that first night, even in the stark differences. This time they have drinks to abandon. They have a shorter walk; the sofa is that much closer than the front door.

They still walk hand-in-hand, facing forward.

This time it’s only his fingers that tremble ever so slightly as they grasp hers; she is solid and strong, and his heart feels full as he takes in the change in her; how _sure_ she can be of him, of them, when he has just shown her this regretful piece of himself.

They close the door behind them, hide themselves away in the little sanctuary of privacy that is his bedroom, and yet he is not sure that he has ever felt more on display.

Lips joined, they sink together to the bed before he breaks their kiss and rises again to unbutton his own shirt. He doesn’t let her take off his clothing this time, even though she is clearly more than happy to help. She didn’t force his revelation from him tonight. Even with all of her prodding, truly it was his choice to confess to her, here, now. He may not be rushing headlong into divulging more of his secrets aloud, but he isn’t ready to relinquish his own openness—that terrifying and liberating feeling of simple openness to Kate.

Here again his fingers tremble for a moment, the adrenaline of self-disclosure and unconditional acceptance and _it makes me like you just a little bit more_ setting off synapses like fireworks. But then he meets her eye again, finds truth and trust mirrored there, and the tremble recedes just enough. When he gets to the last button down the front, he moves to those on the cuffs of his sleeves, and she reaches up with one hand to lay her palm flat against his bare chest as though he has revealed his very heart, waiting patiently for him to discard the fabric.

* * *

She’s entirely too distracted by the sight of him even to remove her own clothing; can’t pull her stare away from his broad shoulders and the strong arms that lead into his writer’s hands—hands that she now knows have worked a lifetime for atonement and honor. Tonight she has learned a little bit more about just how much strength he has in him.

For perhaps the first time, she feels that she is indulging every one of her senses in getting to know him.

She inhales the subtle scent of citrus bergamot, but when she kisses him, he still tastes of the rustic Châteauneuf-du-Pape.

She feels his radiating warmth and senses the crackle of energy midair; touches his skin and savors his every response.

She hears not only the confession he has entrusted to her tonight, but every pounding reverberation of a liberated heart.

And then there is the gratitude that she sees in his eyes; so immeasurable that it surpasses even the greatest expressions of gratitude that he has ever offered to her.

He’d feared that sharing the truth might change how she saw him, and in the moment that he’d finally told her, she’d thought that the only change it brought was the way that she liked him even more.

It’s only now that she sees the other change—the one in him, the one that’s brought him to life.

And it’s a beautiful paradox that she would share with him out loud if speaking it might be half as beautiful as experiencing it, for either one of them; something she might voice if she could even put it into words: Tonight he is a new man, but no less the same man she’s been falling in love with all along.


	2. Drawers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3x04 “Punked” and 5x14 “Reality Starstruck”
> 
>  _“I will love you as a drawer loves a secret compartment, and as a secret compartment loves a secret, and as a secret loves to make a person gasp, and as a gasping person loves a glass of brandy to calm their nerves, and as a glass of brandy loves to shatter on the floor, and as the noise of glass shattering loves to make someone else gasp, and as someone else gasping loves a nearby desk to lean against, even if leaning against it presses a lever that loves to open a drawer and reveal a secret compartment. I will love you until all such compartments are discovered and opened, and until all the secrets have gone gasping into the world.”_ –Lemony Snicket

He told her he wears boxers. She pretended not to be listening.

So why is she still thinking about it now?

She has a—well, sort of a boyfriend. Guy. Man. Anyway, official or not, it’s probably not good that she’s presently more distracted by the thought of Castle’s underwear, which she has never seen, than the thought of the man she is supposed to be seeing.

She’s also talking about the case, filling Castle in on this lead on a third shooter at the duel. Her work ethic, she knows, is convincing. He doesn’t suspect a thing. She is the queen of misdirection.

Except that she’s still thinking about how she doesn’t know why she is still thinking about Castle’s boxers.

Her current excuse is that he’s got a steampunk monstrosity of gears and cogs strapped to his arm and his torso is clad in sleek brown leather and she can’t keep from wondering what steampunk underwear might look like. She’s new to this subculture, but she knows she can’t be the first person to think of this. Surely it exists.

(Later, on a whim, she’ll type in a search for “steampunk underwear” and will be mildly disappointed in her findings. She’ll be scrolling through the image results when Josh calls, and she’ll click out of the window on her laptop as though he can see it from across the city. He won’t suspect a thing, either.)

But right now, she’s standing in Castle’s loft, and God help her, she’s imagining something snug with brass gears and brown leather when, suddenly, Castle’s robotics are misfiring comically, his arm thrust at a diagonal across his chest.

She stifles a smirk that could all too easily escalate to a giggle.

He’d have to be careful not to get those brass gears too close to any sensitive skin.

* * *

The Drawer is full of him now. Boxers, T-shirts, pants, socks—any items he might need while he stays at her place, especially for an impromptu visit.

Josh never got a drawer. Didn’t matter how many times they were _tucked up in bed_ at her place.

This is the first time she has not only let someone in but actually made space for him in her world.

And she likes it.

The T-shirts and pants and socks are great, of course, but she especially likes the boxers taking up residence in her dresser.

Not that she snoops around The Drawer when he is not there. (But, really, when is she there without him these days?)

There’s something so intimate about it; having this under-layer of Castle in her home, all the time, no matter how much or how little of himself he reveals to her each day.

And she hopes that he gets it, that she’s letting him in and making space. Hopes that it will encourage him to trust her with more than his underwear.

Beautiful and silky and sexy as they may be.

And when she thinks about it—about what they’ve given each other in one sweet, silly, simple exchange—it’s all summed up in such a Castle Pun that she can’t believe he hasn’t said it aloud yet: She’s got his drawers in her drawer.

Except now it’s his.


	3. Apples

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1x01 “Flowers for Your Grave,” 4x23 “Always,” 5x01 “After the Storm,” and 5x05 “Probable Cause”
> 
>  _“The sweeter the apple, the blacker the core. Scratch a lover and find a foe!”_ –Dorothy Parker

She leans in close, locks eyes with him and lets her voice seethe low and dangerous, effectively letting him know that if he ever betrays her trust again, he can expect blood. “You know, for a minute there, you almost made me believe you were human.”

She turns to the two cops who followed her into the New York Public Library like her own private security, one command her sole consolation for all the trouble that this jackass has caused her: “Cuff him.”

“Bondage!” he says, like it’s just what he’s always wanted. “My safe word is apples.”

She’ll let him see how he likes lockup.

* * *

She’s not sure how much time has actually passed since they collapsed in his bed, spent from the consummation of a romance so long in the making, but he is still touching her, like he still can’t believe that she’s naked beneath the thin white sheet. And she’s touching him, too, already craving the inevitable encore, but he is curled over her body and all she can think is how he seems to have been doing most of the work so far.

And oh, so very, very well.

She knows he is only human, but his skillfulness and stamina are almost enough to make her forget that.

He’s been all over her since he pushed her against the door and pulled her into his bed. It feels even more incredible than she imagined and she just wants him to stop, just for a second, let her catch her breath and savor his skin as much as he’s enjoyed hers.

The truth is, he responded to _I just want you_ with such abandon that leaning on the door and trying futilely to chase his lips with hers consumed an inordinate amount of her energy. But if she wants their coupling to be just as collaborative as their partnership, and she does, she’s obviously going to need to do something about that now, before the encore.

She’s resourceful about it. She knows, as strong as she is, that flipping them or pinning him won’t be enough, nor will simply telling him to simmer down so she can attend to him the way she intends. If the vigor of the first part of their evening is any indication, he won’t be able to resist resisting. _He touches things._ She’s long accepted this. But she has resources. Well, Castle’s resources. She has nothing here but wet clothes.

And it’s not like police cuffs have ever kept him in line, anyway. She ties him up with his own shirt.

“Apples,” she says. “Is that really your safe word, or have you just been teasing me all this time?”

She’s not sure whether the shirt is a strong enough binding or Castle is only stunned into submission, but neither of them complains with the outcome.

In the morning, he tells her he liked it.

Especially that part. He loved that.

And she smiles.

* * *

He’s adventurous; she’ll give him that. He wants to try things that are new even to her. Especially after a little Zinfandel at her place.

He wants her to test his tolerance level for something other than alcohol.

He has both human desires and human limits, but she’s beginning to think that she doesn’t know the extent of either one.

She starts small, with the black metal cuffs he’s brought, and lets the scenario escalate at a gradual pace, but they are both so excited and the energy between them is spiking like never before and the unanswered question of _where will we draw the line_ is a seduction all its own. And for a moment, in the midst of it, he actually looks sort of scared, like he’s playing this part down to the last detail.

“A— _apples,”_ he grits out.

It takes another moment for it to register that maybe he _is_ scared. That he is serious. That, this time, the apples are not a joke. Of course they’re not.

It’s his _safe word._

She stops immediately then, unbinds him, but the immediacy has already lost its power. She only knows she never wants to see him look this scared again.

He gasps a sigh of relief and laughs a nervous laugh that’s buzzed with wine and drunken with adrenaline. The expression on his face is all too nearly the one that she sees whenever they escape a close call—a bullet or a bomb or the cold depths of the drink.

She stopped. But she hesitated first. She’s not sure she’ll forgive herself. Never again when Castle is in any sort of danger will she _hesitate._

“Kate,” he says, nuzzling her. “It’s okay. I’m okay.”

She’s fighting tears and he strokes her hair and kisses her and it’s all wrong, and she learns that sometimes when he’s been hurt, Rick Castle hides away, and sometimes he turns around and soothes the person who hurt him.

That night they make love and it’s tender and gentle and slow and she doesn’t even cling to his back and hips for fear of scraping him. But then she gets the feeling that he’s being so gentle _for her,_ and it makes her dig her hands into the sheets just a little bit more.

* * *

She slides open the cell door and finds him standing there, subdued, in theory ready to be cuffed and transported but not really _ready_ at all.

She places the cuffs on his wrists in front of him, more gently than she has ever ratcheted them into place on anyone, desperate to show him a gesture of great care and grant him the human dignity that this cell has taken from him.

When he says, “This is so much less fun than the other night at your place,” she can tell he means to lighten the mood and hide behind humor.

Instead, it’s a bittersweet callback to their adventurous, tender lovemaking and her greatest mistake of their bedroom experience. He’s already forgiven her, but she cannot forget that she gave him reason to doubt her; betrayed his trust for the duration of a heartbeat.

She’d give anything now to have the chance to make it up to him.


	4. Ringer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1x07 “Home Is Where the Heart Stops,” 1x08 “Ghosts,” and 5x24 “Watershed”
> 
>  _“Engage people with what they expect; it is what they are able to discern and confirms their projections. It settles them into predictable patterns of response, occupying their minds while you wait for the extraordinary moment—that which they cannot anticipate.”_ ―Sun Tzu, _The Art of War_

Today she’s learned two things about Richard Castle that she didn’t already know.

One: He can shoot a target. A stationary target posing no threat, but a target nonetheless. Three shots straight to the 10-ring put her to shame. She doesn’t ask, but she expects it has something to do with past “research.”

And two: He’s not as egotistical as she thought. He’s even worse. He’ll put his pride on the line just long enough that he can gain the advantage. He’ll pretend he can’t shoot for shit if it means he gets what he wants. He’s a ringer.

“You got to watch those silhouettes,” he told her when he found her firing off some steam in the shooting range. “They can be shifty little bastards.”

She’s looking at a shifty little bastard all right. Shamelessly she pictures concentric rings on him like he’s a man made of paper. He only saunters ahead of her, ready to claim his prize.

* * *

She should have known after what happened last week at the shooting range. She should have known what it would mean to play poker with him.

She just didn’t expect him to let her win. Usually a ringer cons for his sake—his own financial gain, his own pride, his own benefit—not for someone else’s.

She’s not sure how she feels about this. She’s insulted that he would be this condescending to her and just a little bit flattered that he would be this selfless for her and it’s all a mess of things she won’t talk about and things she never thought she’d know about him.

She decides she wants a rematch; a chance to crush him will keep her from getting soft.

And then she finds out that she’s no better than he is. She spares him, too. Spares him and that ego she thinks she hates.

* * *

It isn’t until they wager for Gummy Bears and agree to no mercy that she realizes she likes the ego intact in a fair fight.

They’re pretty well matched, even if she does eventually win.

His look of genuine defeat is actually endearing. She decides it’s endearing not because she’s a coldhearted competitor (even if she can be, and she can be with Rick Castle, as long as they’ve both promised to be merciless), but because genuine looks good on him.

And she’s pleased to see that it doesn’t end there.

With genuine sportsmanship, he congratulates her on a game well played. With genuine self-deprecation, he says he hopes they’ll play again so he can earn back a bit of his dignity.

With genuine graciousness, he offers to take any flavors of Gummy Bears that she doesn’t actually like, but only if there are flavors that she doesn’t actually like.

He doesn’t even suggest that she doesn’t like the mango or the banana gummies, a detail which, knowing Castle, he has all too likely noticed by now.

They’re smiling through the whole thing. It’s getting late, and they’re both getting bleary-eyed and hungry for non-gelatinous food; and despite all that, neither of them admits it aloud or seems to be in any real hurry to leave. They’re smiling, and for one of the first times in their brief acquaintance, their one-on-one camaraderie feels real.

She offers him a consolation prize of Gummy Bears To-Go—even some of the cherry ones she likes, and he rewards her unexpected gesture with a look of genuine gratitude.

It’s a close call, really, but she thinks she likes that look even better than his look of defeat.

* * *

He tells her he’s been doing a lot of thinking about their relationship, about what they have and where they’re headed. This confession comes after the one year that the relationship has been intimately real. Two and half years since he first promised her always. Four years since she shared her cherry Gummy Bears.

“I’ve decided I want more,” he says. “We both deserve more.”

He’s thinking of himself, but he’s thinking of her, too. That’s why he’s about to break it off with her. She tells herself that no matter how much this loss will hurt, she can console her broken heart later with the memory of a man she will always admire—a man simultaneously capable of both self-respect and selflessness.

She loves him even more for that.

This is honestly going to hurt.

And then, just when she least expects it, he’s kneeling beside her swing, a ring between his fingers.

Today she’s learned two things about Richard Castle that she didn’t already know.

One: This, as it turns out, is not the face of solemn defeat, but rather the face of solemn decision.

And two: He wants to marry her.


	5. Healer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1x01 “Flowers For Your Grave,” 1x09 “Little Girl Lost,” 2x13 “Sucker Punch,” 3x24 “Knockout,” and 4x01 “Rise”
> 
> (Part of this one-shot is a revised excerpt from _This Nikki Heat Thing._ )
> 
>  _“A story was a form of telepathy. By means of inking symbols onto a page, she was able to send thoughts and feelings from her mind to her reader’s. It was a magical process, so commonplace that no one stopped to wonder at it.”_ –Ian McEwan, _Atonement_

She isn’t the victim, but the emotional wounds are fresh and deep. When she left for college, a grown young woman with the world set before her, she felt invincible. Less than six months later, she has never felt so vulnerable in her life.

Her mother is gone, and her father is slipping away even faster than Kate is. She had just made new strides toward her independence, and maybe that helps her to stand a little stronger and lets him fall a little harder, or maybe she and her dad just have different means of coping. Different addictions.

He’s taking to the bottle; she to books. Jack Daniel’s. Richard Castle’s.

She doesn’t know yet why her mother was murdered, but there is always a resolution at the end of Castle’s stories. Instead of letting the discrepancy bother her, instead of resenting the endings that are so thoroughly pulled together, she devours them. She decides she’ll find vicarious justice until she finds it for real. She decides to join the police force. She decides to keep reading.

She sees this man’s face on the dust jackets and wonders about him; wonders how he can get inside the minds of people who do inexplicable things; wonders how he manages to explain them. He has an understanding of a dark and dangerous world that she has only just discovered exists beyond fiction.

She wonders if he knows the brokenness that she knows, or if he’s just a brilliant liar.

When she has the chance to meet him in person at a book signing across town, she takes it. She wants to see his eyes; see if they’re as tired and jaded and hungry for justice as hers.

They’re not. His eyes are full of mirth and his smile is warm, even after a long day, and it occurs to her that she may have been waiting in line for over an hour, but he’s been here even longer than that. She almost feels guilty for giving him one more task.

But she needs this. She needs this, and she doesn’t know why, only that it matters.

“Hi. Who can I make this out to?” he asks. His joy is as intoxicating as his timbre. Even after eight words spoken aloud, she thinks she will hear him reading to her from now on.

“Kate,” she says, her voice much stronger than she feels inside. “You can make it out to Kate.”

* * *

When her team finds out about her secret hobby, Esposito wants to know why she would ever want to leave work and go home to read murder mysteries. It’s the last thing he needs after everything they see day in and day out.

“Aren’t you curious,” she asks, showing him the photo of Alison Tisdale’s flowery corpse, “how people can do _this_ to each other?”

Knowing why matters. She’ll take every possible answer she can find.

* * *

She’s just killed a man.

It isn’t like she’s never done this in the line of duty before, and certainly, under the circumstances, it’s difficult to think of her victim as human—or even a victim, for that matter. Not only did Dick Coonan kill her mother, letting her bleed out in an alley alone, but he also killed his own brother. He already ensured that there would be few to mourn him. She feels that much more vindicated.

But she does have blood on her hands: Coonan’s blood and the blood of any other victims he may have killed whose loved ones deserve the closure of _knowing_ —how and why. Knowing why matters.

And because Coonan is dead, she and however many others will have to wait until another lead comes along before they can know why.

Without a moment’s hesitation, without even a conscious decision, she took action that put Castle’s life above the only lead she had to solve her mother’s case. This isn’t regret. It’s just—

_I need him alive._

Just who does she need?

* * *

Late that night, she weeps at her bathroom sink, having washed the blood from her hands for the dozenth time.

She folds herself there over her arms, her body wracked with sobs and shudders, her face covered in tears and snot, the hopelessness of her situation overwhelming and unbearable even to consider, let alone to live with.

By the time she’s ready to pick herself up she has already slumped to the tile floor, a messy heap of grief and confusion. As the barrage of emotion subsides into want and weariness, she stands and washes her face and hands once more.

She goes back to her room and takes a book from her bedside table—the book that Castle signed for her years ago. Not because it’s a murder mystery or because it helps her understand why people do what they do. Nothing can tell her why tonight; why Coonan killed her mother, why she killed Coonan.

She chooses it because it’s soothingly familiar; because she knows almost every word by heart.

* * *

He loves her.

Eight words spoken aloud. And while she’s on the ground, she thinks that if she lives to remember it, she will hear his voice breaking over those eight words every day of her life.

* * *

He loves her.

It’s difficult to pick up his book now, knowing this. It was never difficult when he was a stranger whose work she sought for insight. It wasn’t even difficult when he became an acquaintance, a shadow, a friend, a partner; his work an alternate universe of her own world.

But now? It’s difficult. Complicated. Because he crouched over her body in its most vulnerable state and told her he loved her.

It was one thing to be admired; to turn his head, to hear him praise her strength and her heart; to inspire a smart, savvy, sexy heroine in her favorite author’s latest series.

But it’s another thing altogether to lie mangled and bloodied on the ground—her strength leaking from her bullet-grazed heart, her lungs struggling for air that will not save her, the pain of two beloved mentors’ betrayals still just as raw as this hole in her chest—and be loved so wholly in all this brokenness.

She’s not sure if she’s any readier to read the words he’s written than she was to hear the words he said.

But she needs something to drown out the crickets that remind her she’s trapped in an indeterminable time of healing. And she misses him. And she has so many questions.

So she touches the soft golden glow of the cover of _Heat Rises_ . . . and opens it.

For years she’s been going to his novels, silently asking him how people can kill each other.

This time when she reads, she’s only asking him to show her how people love. How he loves.

He’s healed all of her that he can heal, hasn’t he? So how does he do it—how does he love her like this?


	6. Eighth Grade Heartbreak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2x04 “Fool Me Once,” 3x06 “3XK,” and Season 5
> 
>  _“Hearts can break. Yes, hearts can break. Sometimes I think it would be better if we died when they did, but we don’t.”_ —Stephen King, _Hearts in Atlantis_

They’re looking through some of his old photos and yearbooks. Of course, Kate doesn’t know any of these people, but it’s still exciting to see some of the faces from her boyfriend’s adolescence—not to mention teenage Ricky Rodgers and a visual overview of the 1980s, the first full decade that he remembers more vividly than she does.

She’s holding a class photo from the fall of ‘84. Oh, the sleeves. Oh, the glasses. Oh, the awkward little faces wishing they were anywhere but there in four straight rows. She can’t help but grin. She’s all the more delighted that she picks him out almost immediately, even without looking at the caption of listed names.

“Well, weren’t you the little trendsetter.”

“What? Why?” He glances at what she’s found, and she dodges playfully, as though he’s not allowed to see it, but he manages to get a look.

Pointedly she focuses more on the picture than on him; can see him squirming in her peripheral vision. “Only one in a flannel shirt.”

“So?”

“Was that already a thing in 1984 or did you start that?” Her eyes are still glued to this fabulous find and she can’t stop herself. “Six boys in horizontal stripes. Did they coordinate?”

He offers an alternate theory: “Or Big Brother had an invested interest in young men’s fashion.”

“And of course you escaped indoctrination.”

“Of course.”

She smiles and rolls her eyes, and her gaze falls on the list of names. One catches her attention. “Sherry Ort. Why does that name sound familiar?”

Rick blushes. Has she ever seen him truly blush? If she has, she doesn’t remember. She’s too distracted by her sweet, sexy boyfriend and his pretty pink cheeks.

“Castle?”

He’s still busying himself with his own discoveries, his attention divided. “You mean the Triple Killer’s fifth victim?” he says. His answer doesn’t account for his reluctance or his shame. It seems subtly subversive.

Especially given the facts at hand. They’re rummaging through his junior high mementos, not a database at the Twelfth, and he’s never mentioned a connection. And then there’s the girl herself, staring up at her from the picture.

“Ah, no,” she says, “this is Sherry with a Y. A brunette.”

Those traits can be changed, of course, but 3XK’s victim would have been born around the time this picture was taken. No, this is definitely a different person. And there is definitely something else about this name in the haze of her memory besides a detail from a case file. She studies the teenage girl’s face; tries to think if she’s ever seen her.

“Pretty girl,” she says with a shrug, and she’s actually about to move on when Castle speaks up like a broken suspect.

He responds now like it was never a big deal, badly overcompensating. “Oh, _that_ Sherry Ort. Yeah, she stole my lunch money.” Without a pause, the casual tone slides unbidden into a higher pitch: “I told you about her?” He clearly does not remember this.

But she does. “Wait a minute. Eighth-grade-crush Sherry Ort? Broke-your-heart Sherry Ort?”

He clears his throat and reiterates: “She also stole my lunch money.”

“And laughed about it with her friends. I know. You told me.”

A small sigh escapes him. “It was so much less awkward when you knew that as not-my-girlfriend.”

And suddenly it makes sense—why something he once mentioned so easily now makes him look uncomfortable. His feelings haven’t changed. Their relationship status has. She tilts her head to get a better look at him, even if he’s not making eye contact. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

“Well, it’s not so much something you believe as it is something you _sense,”_ he hedges.

Bullshit. “Castle, you can tell me things,” she says, setting aside the picture and reaching for him, squeezing his knee. “You can tell me anything. More so now than ever.”

He glances at the hand on his knee; glances off to the side as he gathers himself. “It’s stupid,” he says, finally. “I know it is. I got over that a long time ago.”

She doesn’t say anything because it looks like he’ll say more when he’s ready.

“It’s just—that was one of the first times I understood how much someone I cared about could hurt me.”

She’s quiet now, not just because she wants to hear whatever more he’ll say, but because she feels physical heartache inside her at the thought of him learning that inevitable and difficult lesson; the possibility that she may not be able to imagine how often he’s had to learn it.

The pain only tightens with the selfish thought that she herself must have reinforced that lesson for him more times than she’d care to count.

If the heartbreak she feels for him over all of this is half of what he feels, she’s sorry she ever asked about Sherry Ort.

His voice isn’t emotional at all, but his face is too contemplative, too honest for her to think that this memory is as meaningless to him as it may have seemed the first time he mentioned it to her. “The next year I went to Edgewyck and never saw her again,” he says, before she can think fast enough to offer him an out. “But I’ll never forget her, either. And I—I hate her for that. Because in the end, she doesn’t matter . . . but she did.”

After a moment, after she gives his knee another squeeze and they start shuffling through photos again, she tells him, “Thank you.”

She doesn’t need to elaborate. She knows that he knows by now why she’s thanking him. He just nods.

They sit in companionable silence for a while longer, digging a bit more through his past without talking about it. Then, finally, she breaks their habit with another question: “Would you like me to arrest Sherry Ort for stealing your lunch money?”

“Please.”

His smile makes her smile, too. And she decides that, even though all is still not right in the world, at least they know how to face it together.


	7. Of Sex and Nutmeg

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1x06 “Always Buy Retail,” 2x15 “Suicide Squeeze,” 5x10 “Significant Others,” and 5x12 “Death Gone Crazy”
> 
>  _“He’s of the color of the nutmeg. And of the heat of the ginger. . . . He is pure air and fire; and the dull elements of earth and water never appear in him, but only in patient stillness while his rider mounts him; he is indeed a horse, and all other jades you may call beasts.”_ –William Shakespeare, _Henry V_

She slips her panties into his pocket, and he’s putty in her paws.

They’re sitting down at the table sipping cocktails, allegedly relaxing after their time on the dance floor. But Kate is feeling particularly playful tonight, and she gets the sense that Castle doesn’t need much convincing. The panty trick proves her right.

They don’t go to night clubs often at all, tending instead to share private evenings at home with some wine or scotch. Now that they’re here, it would be a shame not to make the visit as happily memorable as it could be.

Grinding against each other in the stifling heat and scattered light has gotten their blood pumping. Slipping her hand into Rick’s pocket and leaving him a lacy present has only taken them both to the edge. By the time they secure a spot in the restroom, they’re hot and heavy and don’t waste any time.

It’s all the excitement and desperation of two strangers with an instant attraction or two horny kids with nowhere else to go, but they’re just an exclusive couple simply opting not to use their great apartments, all the while trying not to end up in the tabloids—at least not with any incriminating photos.

The whole thing feels forbidden and risky and like they’ve regressed a few years.

Castle is really, really into it.

When they finally go back to his place, she pulls him in for a kiss and sneaks her hand back into his pocket—one and then the other.

“Castle—” she murmurs into his mouth.

“Mm?”

“Where are they?”

He begins to understand; digs through his pockets even though she just did. “They, uh—they must have fallen out.”

“What do you mean they must have fallen out?”

“I mean they . . . fell . . . out.”

“At the club?”

“Or somewhere between there and . . . here.” He has the voice and posture of a man aware of his mortality, but that doesn’t stop him from a moment of innovation. “Police panties should come with a little tracking device, don’t you think?”

She is not amused. She silently ensures that he can tell.

“I’m just sayin’. It’s an idea.” He takes the hint and beckons her, begrudgingly, into his arms. “I’ll buy you new underwear,” he promises, kissing her head and loosening his embrace. “And then,” he adds emphatically, “install a tracking device for all your future public sex-ventures.”

She groans and tries to swat at him, but he’s already running away. She chases him to the living room, where he surrenders under the condition that they make love right there on the floor.

Night clubs are exciting, but not much beats an empty loft.

* * *

Admittedly, Meredith is fun, dynamic, and knows how to order food at a nice restaurant. She’s talked Kate into splitting appetizers that she honestly doesn’t regret. Meredith points out that, altogether, their meal ensures well-rounded nutrition without skimping on the best stuff. Flighty as she may be, the woman knows how to have a good time while still taking decent care of herself.

They talk mostly about growing up in the city, compare notes. Kate mentions baseball games with her dad; asks if Meredith has ever been.

“I was never a baseball fan,” Meredith says, spearing a bite. “The only time I’ve been to Yankee Stadium is with Rick.”

Kate’s confused. “Rick doesn’t like baseball.”

“Neither do I.” She grins. Somehow it’s both classy and lascivious. “We’ve done it all kinds of places,” she volunteers. “Hot air balloon, Westminster Dog Show, Coney Island . . .”

 _Please,_ Kate prays, _let her stop talking before she ruins all of New York._

“And those were just some of the best.” Yes, they keep track.

 _Kept track,_ Kate thinks. _As in used to. As in not anymore._

But the fact is, even if they’re not having sex now, she can’t imagine he’s forgotten this list.

She certainly won’t.

She’s tempted to talk about their soiree at the night club—not to mention all the other kinky shit they’ve done—but she’d rather maintain their privacy. She bites her tongue, but it does make Meredith’s over-sharing that much more difficult to withstand.

The truth is, she can live with this unsolicited information. She already knows they had sex, so ultimately it isn’t much worse to know _where._ Even if it’s going to be a long time before she can go to Yankee Stadium. Or Madison Square Garden. Or Coney Island. Or any hot air balloon anywhere in the world.

No, the hardest part is that she can’t stop thinking about having sex in that night club and how incredibly turned on Castle was. Kate still has a wild streak of her own, but certain things lose their novelty after a time or two, and public sex was one thing she didn’t plan to make a habit.

It’s not the first time she’s wondered it. Is she enough for him?

She thought the worst of her problems was Meredith putting nutmeg in Castle’s coffee and walking around the loft half-naked. How could she forget about crazy-person sex?

And in Meredith’s narrative, she isn’t even the crazy one. “Rick is so eccentric and creative. It makes things more interesting, doesn’t it?”

Is she baiting her on purpose? Kate stuffs food in her mouth and makes an ambivalent noise instead of perpetuating the conversation.

Meredith’s doing just fine on her own. “And isn’t he a stallion? Mm-mm-mm. I mean, he is literally a horse.”

Kate wants to point out that he is most definitely not _literally_ a horse, and she wonders if Meredith’s savage abuse of this word could be one of the reasons their marriage fell apart. Meredith “literally” does not understand the difference between a metaphor and a fact. The only things Castle hates more are mixed-up homophones, misplaced apostrophes, and incorrect use of irony.

She says nothing, but she gets a little buzz from knowing all of this. Her grammar may not be perfect, but at least she doesn’t make him flinch. Much.

Thinking of all these little things she knows about him is what keeps her strong.

Somehow, Kate’s stone wall of silence and determined eating finally lulls Meredith back into friendly and appropriate conversation.

When she looks at her now, there’s something different in her eye. Is that—respect?

She thinks she may have just passed a test.

* * *

It’s the first time that Kate visits Castle at the loft after both of their homes have been ridden of uninvited guests. She’s in the kitchen, making coffee for them while Rick sets up the living room for a matinee movie date. The nutmeg rests on the counter.

She should add it this time. Shouldn’t she?

But is it weird that Meredith did that for him? That she only knows about it because Meredith used it in front of her? That it’s something they’ve shared, something that will remind him of his ex-wife?

Or is it just what he likes, and should she do it for that reason alone?

Then again, she can’t remember a single time that she’s seen him add nutmeg. And if he still likes it so much, why hasn’t he told her before? Why did she have to learn it from his ex?

Meredith said she used it after he pulled all-nighters. Maybe it’s not something he does all the time, or even likes to do more than once in a while. Maybe he’s grown out of it but enjoys it now and then for the nostalgia of it.

But then again, the nutmeg does have its place on the counter. Even when Meredith is gone, there’s the nutmeg. It’s still there. It’s probably always been there. But there are plenty of other spices there, too, and no one’s using any of them in their coffee.

He calls to her from the other room. “Hey, Kate? Should we watch _The Conversation_ or _The French Connection?”_

“You choose,” she calls back, and bites her lip. Is it that simple?

 _“The Conversation_ it is,” he announces.

“Castle?” 

“Or _The French Connection,_ if you prefer.”

“No—not that.” The big goof. Can’t he stick to his guns? She clears her throat and takes a breath and then the words are out: “Do you want nutmeg in your coffee?”


	8. Red Snapper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2x12 “A Rose for Everafter” and Season 5
> 
> Part of this is a revised excerpt from _This Nikki Heat Thing._
> 
>  _“I've put up with more humiliation than I care to remember.”_ –B. B. King

Her eyes are as cold as ever before, and he can’t help but resort to quips and sardonic insinuations to survive this encounter.

“Sheila didn’t approve of struggling artists,” he tells Beckett, who’s still standing in the path of a woman the likes of whom she will never truly know. He turns to his might-have-been mother-in-law and offers a wry smile. “You must like Greg, though. He’s from money, right?”

Sheila sees his insinuation and raises him an insult. “It was never about the money, Richard. It was about character, and you would know that, if you had any.”

And just like that, she’s gone, leaving the stench of a hundred confrontations recommitted to his memory.

“Wow,” says Beckett, apparently impressed with even this small shred of wrath. “Just imagine. If things had worked out, you’d be spending Thanksgivings with her.”

At that, the stench becomes a taste. Wordlessly he shudders, a visceral reaction to what just that one prompt has evoked in him.

* * *

He didn’t finish his second book. At least, not the one he began as his second book—not until much later. Such was the distraction of falling in love, of summer meetings on the secret rooftop. He was derailed enough that he had to put aside _Flowers for Your Grave_ and start a different novel; a practice he did not feel good about indulging, even with only one bestseller under his belt. But at least he was still writing.

They spent that Thanksgiving with Kyra’s family. They’d been together for just under a year, which was already longer than any of Castle’s previous relationships, and he was feeling the pressure. It was the first time that he was meeting the Blaines, and he wanted to make a—well, he didn’t want to fuck it up.

As it turned out, he’d done that long before he got to the front door.

Sheila Blaine had his number. Relentlessly she grilled Rick over dinner: most memorably their nontraditional entrée of grilled red snapper, which Rick decided was all too aptly named for the occasion.

Whenever the going got really tough, he longed to bury himself in his dish, seeking refuge from one red snapper with another. But he stayed strong; back straight, best behavior. Small enough bites to seem civilized, but not so small as to offend the hosts.

Sheila had heard about his one publishing accomplishment and wanted to know if he intended to continue writing “low-brow literature” in the future, and whether he intended it as a career or as a hobby while holding down a Real Job—especially if he was going to continue to “spend his money as fast as he made it.”

He rather meekly responded that, wherever his career path led, he believed his writing quality would improve over time, like a fine wine. The metaphor did nothing to appease Sheila Blaine, who had already decided that his writing niche was not a fine enough wine to begin with.

Then she wanted to know why he hadn’t managed to publish anything in the year since _In a Hail of Bullets_ hit the shelves. “Kyra tells us you’re always writing. All this writing and nothing to show for it?”

“I’ve got a good portion of another novel completed,” he assured her, carefully neglecting to elaborate that _Flowers for Your Grave_ had bit the dust. “And I’ve just started a new one, which I’m really excited about, called _A Rose for Tonight.”_

Kyra offered him a bright smile from across the table; he’d mentioned that she had somehow inspired his newest novel, but this was the first time that she was hearing anything about the title.

Sheila Blaine scoffed. “Sounds like something Danielle Steel turned down.”

Rick opted not to ask whether that was an insult because Sheila approved of Danielle Steel or because she condemned her. It was pretty clear that it was an insult either way. He smiled back at Kyra and attended to his red snapper, the one that was on his side.

It was a very long Thanksgiving dinner, and when it was finally over, Rick had never been more thankful in his young life.

Kyra said he deserved a medal for it all, but Rick declared that dating Kyra was its own reward. That made her smile. He remembered that.

He’d turn a phrase as often as he could just to see that smile.

Then, a year later, he published what had become _A Rose for Everafter_ and dedicated it to Kyra Blaine.

It was just in time for their second anniversary, and for a moment there he didn’t know which surprised him more: that they were together that long or that he’d turned into the kind of guy who remembers an anniversary with a girlfriend. When had that happened, anyway? He guessed it was probably when he’d finally dated one for more than a year.

And he really liked this one. If staying with her meant he’d die a thousand deaths of humiliation at her mother’s dinner table, he could do that. He could do anything for her.

Anything except forget her. He never expected her to leave him and never look back.

It took seeing her again, decades later, to realize that she was worth everything he went through when they were together and everything he went through when they were apart. That he really was right about her; that he wouldn’t regret for a moment the few short years they shared, humiliation and hurt and happiness all.

* * *

“Castle, are you listening to me?”

“Hmm?” He startles out of wherever he’d gone, but she can tell he hasn’t heard a word until now.

“I said Madison recommends Land Thai Kitchen or Red Snapper Thai Grill.”

He still looks a little fuzzy, not quite himself. Poor guy. He’s been working hard on his next book, _Deadly Heat,_ and it shows.

She refreshes his memory. “Earlier you said you wanted to try a new Thai place tonight. I told you I’d call Maddie for ideas.”

“Right. Yes,” he says, the light returning to his eyes.

“Does either one of those sound like one you want to try?”

“Not the Snapper one. The other one.”

“Land?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” she agrees. “I’ll change.”

There’s no doubt in her mind that tonight he deserves a break, a relaxing dinner out. No future deadlines to plague him. No plot twists to consider. No dialogue to script except for the conversations they’ll share.

Nevertheless, the novel seems to be coming along well this year. Between work and play, she’s kept him busy, but he’s told her whenever he’s needed to take time to write. She’s glad not only for his diligence and self-respect, but also for his openness with her.

He’s getting so much better at telling her what’s on his mind.


	9. Imaginary Friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Depending on how the show goes, I’ll come back to update this and/or maybe move it elsewhere if it’s too AU for this collection.)
> 
>  _“It’s very strange to be an imaginary friend. You can’t be suffocated and you can’t get sick and you can’t fall and break your head and you can’t catch pneumonia. The only thing that can kill you is a person not believing in you.”_ ―Matthew Dicks, _Memoirs of an Imaginary Friend ___

Kevin Ryan wants to know if it’s healthy.

Now that Baby Ryan is walking and talking, the proud but anxious father has plenty of new concerns to plague him. Naturally, Richard Castle is his go-to guy. Standing here in the Ryans’ living room, he’s a flesh-and-bones mentor to complement the parenting book Kevin clutches as they have this conversation.

“Imaginary friends are just part of being a kid,” Castle reassures him. “Did you ever have one?”

“No.” The detective steals a glance at their wives, seated on the sofa while they amuse the toddler with a picture book. “But then again, I had a houseful of siblings. I might have made one of them up,” he quips, emulating the writer’s usual lightness.

Castle chuckles at that. “Well, I had one, and I turned out okay.”

Castle Junior opens his mouth to speak, but before he can say a word, Jenny arrives to take the book from her husband’s hands and sets it down on the sofa. “See, sweetie? I told you. It’s fine.”

Kate stands and joins them, the bright-eyed toddler on her hip, and graciously offers no comment one way or the other about how Castle has turned out.

Brows not quite so furrowed now, Kevin watches Jenny kiss their child’s forehead and say goodbye and then does the same.

“Neely, too,” comes their progeny’s only request, and they oblige, kissing the pretend pal goodbye before they go.

When Mommy and Daddy finally leave, the child fusses a little in Kate’s arms, but then Castle becomes a world class distraction and Baby Ryan is all smiles. It’s almost hard to believe Kevin’s child can be so blissful.

But it’s not so hard to believe that Castle is just good at this. He makes faces and sounds that earn him the toddler’s rapt attention.

He’s got Kate’s attention, too, but for a different reason. She masks her curiosity with an ambivalent tone that doesn’t convince him: “So what exactly was this imaginary friend of yours like?” she wants to know.

“I actually had a whole succession of them,” he confesses. “I just didn’t want to spook Ryan too much.”

She smiles at both his courtesy and his confession, this man who has rekindled her love of play.

He takes Baby Ryan onto his lap and adds: “Some of them just for a day or a week, others hung around for months. My favorite was Michael. At first, Mother thought I was talking about a friend from kindergarten—until I mentioned his superpowers and asked her to set a place for him at the table.”

“Superpowers, huh?”

“Oh, yeah,” he says, the nostalgia pulling his lips into a smile of his own. “He could teleport, create instant force-fields, read minds.”

“No wonder you wanted him around.”

“So what about you?” her husband asks. He bounces the squealing toddler on his knee but manages to direct his questions to Kate, his multi-tasking skills betraying his parenthood. “Did you have an imaginary friend?”

“How long have you known me, Castle?”

“Not since childhood.” He’s no more willing to accept a glib answer than she is now.

She bites her lip when she realizes his determination to match her curiosity, this man she will spend the rest of her life knowing a little better each day.

“Hence the question,” he continues. “I don’t expect you to have had an imaginary friend in your thirties. Though to be fair, sometimes that’s what writing feels like, so I wouldn’t be one to judge.”

“I don’t know,” she finally admits. A dull ache pulses in her head as she strains her memories. “I don’t think so. . . . You know what? No, I don’t even know.”

He looks regretful, as though she’s just told him someone died. “I’m sorry.”

But she doesn’t want pity. This is no big deal. She has plenty of good memories from her early years, and just because Castle remembers his rabble-rousing hoard of invisible playmates doesn’t erase the fact that his childhood was sometimes as lonely as it was imaginative. She knew that much about him already.

So why is it that he’s looking at her now as though she’s the one who’s missing something?

Then again, maybe she is.

She watches Castle blow raspberries against the toddler’s belly and wonders if she’s missing something that he isn’t; wonders whether that something is the memory of an imaginary friend or the life of a real child; wonders if he knows yet that she’s ready for that—the one that they’ll create together.

He’s immersed in a sea of giggling and shrieking, and for a moment, with this little borrowed child in his arms, the picture of possibility comes to life in a way that tugs on her heart.

But she can’t tell if he’s perfectly happy being a borrower now that his daughter is grown.

And it’s one thing to ask about an imaginary friend; it’s something else entirely to ask about an imaginary child.

So she doesn’t ask. Not now.

* * *

Later, she sets the table with two plates of homemade macaroni and cheese, chicken, and veggies. While she’s finished the preparations, Castle has already begun spaceshipping spoonfuls of macaroni into the tiny person’s wide-open mouth. Castle Junior-Junior has taken to miming the actions with an imaginary spoon in-hand and, every now and then, attempts to feed an imaginary being in the unoccupied chair nearby.

They’re quite a sight to behold.

Especially once some chubby little fingers make their way into the macaroni, and Castle doesn’t notice in time to intercept them before a cheesy mess hits the chair and the table and the floor.

“I should have seen that coming,” he sighs, kissing the little hand that suddenly finds his lips.

Kate smiles as her husband focuses his efforts to increase the percentage of food that reaches a real child’s mouth. “I guess even experienced parents have to be ready to learn and adapt.” There are undertones of both concern and relief in her voice that she’s fairly sure he detects.

“Oh definitely,” he agrees. “We’re going to have plenty to learn together.”

He catches her eye, and they share a moment of unabashed telepathy; her heart leaps as he holds her gaze long enough to tell her he meant what he said—and what he’s not-saying very loudly.

 _Good,_ her smile says. She means it, too.

They’ll talk about this later, of course, but for now, he’s given her the hope that the possibility she sees is within reach; that it’s a hope they share. She couldn’t be happier.

Then something else takes her by surprise as she watches her husband feed the child.

Memories long buried suddenly bubble to the surface of Kate’s consciousness; a fantastic past forgotten in the midst of a lifetime commitment to reality.

The force of it hits her. It isn’t that these are extraordinarily happy memories—they’re hardly any happier than everything else she remembers—but that they’re so _real_ in and of themselves. A kind of reality that she had forgotten as she learned to differentiate between the stories she loved and the life she lived.

Unbidden tears well up in her eyes, and she looks off to the side and wills them away so they never fall.

But Castle catches on anyway. “What’s wrong?” he asks, stealing another glance at her between directing the spoon to the toddler’s mouth.

And then she’s laughing quietly, laughing to herself like something beautiful has overtaken her. She can’t help but laugh. “Julie,” she says. “Her name was Julie. She wore yellow and it reminded me of macaroni and cheese.”

It seems he understands now, and he smiles, too. “You know what this means, don’t you?” he says, his tone serious in that way that means he’s not actually serious.

She rolls her eyes, because she knows—here it comes—Castle’s going to rub it in that even Skepticus Maximus, the kid who promptly debunked Santa Claus, has a childhood memory wrapped up in a fantasy world. Now that she’s confessed, she’ll never live this down.

But that’s not his angle at all. He grins widely and says, “You just resurrected your dead imaginary friend. You officially have an _imaginary zombie.”_

She didn’t think it was possible to love him any more than she already did. She was wrong.

About a lot of things.

And she’s glad.


	10. Cheeseburgers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2x14 “The Third Man,” mid-late Season 2, and 6x04 “Number One Fan”
> 
> Half of this is a (very) revised excerpt from _This Nikki Heat Thing._
> 
>  _“People who think they know everything are a great annoyance to those of us who do.”_ –Isaac Asimov

With her dress bag draped over his arm, Castle gently ushers Beckett into the elevator at the Twelfth.

“So how’d you know I’d like Remy’s?” she says, halfway down to the lobby.

Castle grins. How long has he wanted to say this to her and stand a chance that she would believe him? “I just know you that well.”

“You do not.”

“Is that a challenge?” he asks, facing her. “Because if it is, I’d be glad to raise the stakes.”

She bites her lip. “Just what did you have in mind?”

“I’ll guess your order.”

“You’ll what?” she laughs. “Castle, last week you brought me food from _four_ different places because you couldn’t pick just one.”

“Food and drink,” he insists. “If I’m right, I take you home.” When she arches one menacing brow at him, he quickly amends: “Your home. The door. Walk you, cover cab fare, whatever. Just deliver you and your dress bag here”—he lifts it more into view—“to your place unscathed.”

The elevator bell rings and the doors open to the lobby, and Beckett steps out ahead of him but then turns on her heel to face him. “And if you’re wrong?”

Ah, Beckett. Always prepared for him to be wrong. If she could see the scoreboard in his head, she would finally realize that the odds are against that.

He simply replies, “Then I’ll pay your bill.”

Win-win for Richard Castle. Doesn’t matter which way the wager turns out. He goes ahead and gives himself a tally now.

* * *

The place is nearly empty by the time Castle and Beckett agree that they don’t actually intend to camp out at Remy’s just because it’s open all night long.

Never mind that it’s three in the morning, and staying any longer would mean an inevitable walk of shame. That part, neither of them bothers to mention.

“Moment of truth,” she says, an edge of nerves to her voice. “Let’s hear it, Castle.”

His guess is written on a little slip of paper tucked into his coat pocket. Silently, he slides it across the table.

“One strawberry shake,” he recites, as though she doesn’t have the words written in front of her. “One medium-well burger with lettuce, tomato, mushroom, and green pepper. No ketchup, not because you never eat ketchup, but because you’re wearing something you like enough that you—”

“Impressive,” she interrupts, pushing it back across the table for him to retrieve. “And so close.”

“Close? What do you mean ‘close’?”

She shrugs. “It was a cheeseburger.”

“But I—oh.” In his haste and complacency, he must have forgotten entirely to specify that; didn’t even notice the discrepancy as she ate, distracted as he was with her lips and her laughter and even an accidental brush of her leg against his. _“Burger,”_ he says quickly. “Burger could mean ham or cheese. It’s not like I wrote ‘quiche.’ Although that could also mean ham or cheese. Or both. So that actually proves my point. It _is_ like quiche. I’m not convincing you, am I?”

She shakes her head and smiles. “Now pay up.”

“Guess so,” he says, taking out his wallet, his visage of reluctance looking just a little too forced.

It’s then that Beckett suspects that Castle has still won.

She keeps up the ruse. She acts just as he does—as though his paying for her meal tonight is no more chivalrous or romantic or indicative of any feelings on the part of either one of them than the apologetic four-course takeout they shared at her desk last week.

But the more she acts that way, the more convinced she is that the gesture is platonic and the harder it is not to wonder what could possibly be the harm in letting Castle take her home. Her home. The door. Just to deliver her there unscathed.

Unscathed and warm and full-bellied and satisfied.

* * *

When they hit the cold midnight air outside the restaurant, her dress bag draped over his arm again, the absence of him at her own arm makes her feel nothing like she’s won.

“You know, Castle, you were right about almost everything.”

“Wow. What are the odds I can get that in writing?”

She takes out a couple of bills and offers them to him. “I mean, what’s one topping, right?”

But even though her outstretched hand undoubtedly tells Castle one thing— _Take the money_ —the barely perceptible tremor in her fingers tells him another: _Take me home._

He hesitates, her meaning too unclear to him.

Is this a silent plea to let her lose their wager just this once, or simply an attempt to make good on her word when she isn’t sure which of them has won?

“No,” he says finally. “No, we had a deal, and I’ll honor that.”

It’s what she once told him when she made him leave the precinct. One extraordinary apology later, she was offering him _tomorrow._

That’s a lot of tomorrows ago now.

“This isn’t a deal,” she says suddenly, catching him off-guard. “This isn’t a bet or a win.”

“What isn’t?”

“Walk with me,” she says, and then, on an exhale: “Just walk.”

They hold each other’s gaze for what seems a timeless moment, reading each other, speaking without words.

His eyes confirm it: _You mean nothing more._

But hers say: _I mean nothing less._

He nods once. “Okay,” he replies, a smile playing at his lips. “I can do that.”

So she just wants him around a while more?

He decides that Beckett’s wrong about one thing. It is a win. Not even a tally in his mind will properly commemorate it.

* * *

The next time they go for burgers, Beckett gets cocky.

And maybe a little bit jealous.

No, not jealous. Just rightly annoyed. Who slips away to take a phone call while on a—while out to dinner with someone moments before ordering food?

Based on the snippet of conversation she catches, the ill-timed phone call is Paula or Gina or some other woman integral to creating Nikki Heat, anyone but the woman who inspired Nikki, because that woman is alone, listening to her stomach growl at the scent of grilled meat and toasted bread.

So she places her order.

“And what about your . . .?” Instead of filling in the blank, the server throws a nod at Castle’s unoccupied seat.

“Oh, he’ll be—” Beckett pauses, remembering the night she ordered for only herself while he dutifully wandered out of earshot, the night that Castle wagered on what she’d want and they ended up surprising one another with a too-close guess and a late-night walk home.

She’s not sure what gets into her, but she goes ahead and orders Castle’s burger and vanilla shake.

He comes back a minute or so later. “Sorry about that,” he says. “Ready to order?”

“Already did.” She busies herself with a mini trifold menu standing upright on the table, less for the content and more to avoid Castle’s eye.

“Oh. For me, too?”

“Yes, for you, too,” she says, her tone conveying either that this gesture is _no big deal_ or that she’s annoyed with him—which one, he can’t say.

* * *

When their plates come, Castle appraises his burger without comment.

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Was I right?” The note of impatience in her voice makes it impossible for her to pretend she doesn’t care.

Meanwhile, Castle’s enjoying this unexpected game far too much. “Close.”

This time she says nothing, but her expression asks: _What do you mean ‘close’?_

“This isn’t a cheeseburger.”

“Last time you didn’t get a cheeseburger,” she protests.

“Of course I did. Who eats a plain hamburger?”

“You did. You must not have noticed.”

“I would have noticed,” Castle laughs. _“You_ didn’t notice and now you’re covering your tracks. You were too busy gloating that you had a cheeseburger to realize I had one, too.”

They may be bickering over getting to know each other’s orders, having dined together only so many times, but even in this moment, their playful chemistry would make anyone who can hear them believe this couple has already seen countless years together.

“All right,” she concedes, even though the concession has just as much fight to it as any of her arguments, and she reaches for his plate, drawing it to herself.

“What are you doing?”

She nudges the plate with her cheeseburger toward him. “Here.”

“What? No, it’s fine,” he says, one hand seeking out his old plate as he nudges the coveted cheeseburger back to her, as though they’re juggling as a team. “What’s one topping, right?”

“Just take it. It’s no big deal.”

“I know it isn’t a big deal.”

“Castle, I’m serious. Okay?”

He finally agrees. “Okay.” Then he lifts the top bun off the cheeseburger. “Ah. Actually, you know, it’s not just one topping.”

“Oh. Right.” She nudges his old plate toward him yet again, and he grabs the pickles while she reaches over and peels the mushrooms and green peppers off of the cheeseburger in front of him. They nearly swap their lettuce and tomatoes, but wordlessly they catch the futility and exchange a shy smile instead.

“Thanks,” he says.

She nods and hides her smile behind a bite.

Castle watches her, and she arches a brow at him. “You know,” he says, “we could just ask for another cheeseburger.”

She’s chewing, but she rolls her eyes.

“I’m just saying. Who eats a plain hamburger?”

She’s going to smack him. For every reason and none at all. She keeps her hands full of burger as a matter of restraint. “Castle.”

“By the way,” he says, “thanks for the shake. Though I was kind of thinking chocolate today.” Off her subtly fallen look, he adds, “But you know I like my vanilla, too.”

At that she smirks, unconsciously burying the tinge of disappointment she doesn’t know she’s shown him. “That’s funny,” she teases. “I didn’t think there was anything vanilla about you.”

Because if talking about food makes them bicker like old marrieds, nothing rekindles the spark between two people who are decidedly _not-together_ quite like a joke about one’s sex life.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he says.

* * *

Outside the dentist’s office where Emma Briggs has taken five hostages, Sergeant Roman wants a code word for Castle to use to signal trouble.

Since they’ve put _apples_ into earnest use, Beckett’s fairly sure he won’t choose that, not to mention that it’s comically close to Nikki Heat’s _pineapples_ and Emma has already proven the endlessness of her knowledge of Castle trivia.

They’ve also used _yellow_ and _red_ accordingly, so she’d wager that Castle won’t choose a color code this time around. That eliminates several options already, and Castle isn’t coming up with anything for the sergeant.

But then Roman only makes matters more difficult when he asks Castle his favorite food. The man is a connoisseur with a very . . . eclectic . . . palate. From the fine dining of LeCirque and Spago to soap-flavored lollipops and homemade s’morelettes, Castle has seldom met a morsel he couldn’t appreciate.

“Cheeseburgers,” Beckett interrupts, saving the day with a decisive declaration of insider’s knowledge. “He loves cheeseburgers.”

Her fiancé folds. Sometimes she knows him better than he knows himself. “That’s true. I do enjoy a good cheeseburger.”

Code word established, Roman finishes his briefing and takes his leave.

Beckett straightens Castle’s collar which doesn’t need straightening and meets his eyes. “Listen,” she says. “I’m kind of looking forward to spending the rest of my life with you, so don’t do anything stupid in there, okay?”

A late-night walk home. An uninterrupted dinner out. Years later, she’s still angling to have as much time with him as she can possibly get. At least she can finally admit it aloud.

And she knows him so well now; knows how often his memory and his theories and his predictions turn out to be impressively accurate, and that’s what she’s counting on now.

She’s counting on everything she knows about him to ensure that she’ll have a lifetime to keep getting to know him.

So even though she’s swallowing her worry as she watches him walk away, she tells herself that her Castle will be all right. And she can bet on it.


End file.
